


A nest of vipers

by cortchuzska



Series: Colorado [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellaria changes her mind, and persuades Oberyn to have a fling with Sansa.</p><p>"about our golden beauty...a redhead will do just as fine"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A nest of vipers

“What about our golden beauty?”

“The question is not who fathered the children – as far as I'm concerned, and as long as I care, true Baratheon stock – but who's in charge now. Who is the Dowager Queen, who is the King's Hand, who the Master of Coins, who the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Not the Baratheons. The royal court has always been a nest of vipers, and that could be as well another useful gossip, with no shreds of evidence. The children looking like their mother doesn't mean they are bastards. Mine favour their mothers, and they don't look like me.”

“But they _are_ like you, Oberyn.”

“Because I'm their father and I took care of them”. He squinted at her. “Even if they're bastards.”

“And our own daughters looks like you.”

He drew closer to whisper at her ears, and wrapped her waist.“Because we are so similar to each other.”

“I actually meant the other blonde, for us to share.” She playfully nudged Oberyn, setting her head on his shoulder joint.

“I'm sorry, Ellaria, the Small Council schedule is being quite tight as of late: especially our half-man must be frantically busy, the Seven Kingdoms treasury coffers lying shamelessly bare, and our golden Queen urging for a most extravagant wedding feast to impress the Tyrells. Whose dowry will pay the actual bill.”

“As an afterthought, a redhead will do just as fine.” Her eyes swayed, following a grey cloak. “Blondes' skin colour is simply lighter; theirs is just different.”

“Sansa Stark? She is but a child!”

“A wedded woman now.

“Her marriage was a joke.”

“All the more: hers is not likely a jealous husband and anyway, she is not that child any more. Every night, before moonrise Lady Sansa treads the alley to the godswood my chambers overlook, to be back at dawn, as you've just seen. You should have asked Tyrion Lannister for her instead.”

“The North still keeps to the Old Gods. Most would turn to religion, after enduring what she suffered.”

“I have never heard of the Old Gods requiring night time devotions, have you, Oberyn? You're such a well learned and travelled man.”

“I've rather odd notions of some Lysene goddess favouring such devotions. By the way, none of my business, but I'm wondering why were you messing around by the godswood alley, at ungodly hours. Couldn't you sleep because of the heat?”

Oberyn purposely displayed a shudder – not such a cold night, even for a Dornishman, settled more tightly a goat wool scarf and fastened it with a clasp emblazoned with his House crest, a copper sun its spiky frame and the pin a silver spear.  

“Plucking roses, my lord.” She replied innocently.

“Roses? That amounts to high treason!”

Ellaria chortled, coiled around her forefinger the greying lock on his temple, then murmured against his ear. “If I were her, after such an engagement and such a marriage, I would gladly spread my legs for anyone.”

“Anyone who is not a Lannister, nor their thug, liege, spy, ally, nor debtor, nor paid by them, nor pretending to be their friend. Is there anyone in King's Landing not kissing their asses?”

“Oberyn! That would be best said in private: even children know the Red Keep has many ears!”

He turned to standard Common Speech, yet with a marked Dornish drawl. “Don't worry, Ellaria. Luckily, it's no longer the Targaryens' reign, when the royal court swarmed with Dornish people.”

Oberyn spoke many languages, lady Mellario herself once said his fluency was such he could pass for a Free Cities native, he thoroughly mastered High Valyrian, while his common tongue command was fitting to a scholar; but not even at the Citadel he got rid of his Dornish accent, and he would never do, the cosmopolite Prince not caring to sound an uncouth peasant because of it.

“Nor the Baratheons', with the Lannisters; next turn, it will be the Tyrells.”

“So that is it: in King's Landing, the Queen's relative held the keys.”

“A cyvasse game: the queen is the key piece.”

“Not a Lannister, nor desperate to please them...” Ellaria furrowed her brow, curled the other grey strands, and chirruped with a sly smile. “A couple of names came to my mind.”

She tilted his head, as to examine him by torches light.

“I wish to behold how your different colours match; she is so exceedingly light, and you're quite dark.”

“They'll likely clash: a Stark and a Martell has never been heard of.”

“Not as an unseemly allegiance as a Lannister and a Stark.”

“Old Gods, direwolves, wargs: to King's Landing affected courtesy they are a breed apart, and bordering wild.”

“We are as well.”

“Should I assume you savour the boon of diversity?”

“I envision your lips, your dark lips, as dark as... May I, my lord?”

“As you please.”

Oberyn gallantly leant to allow Ellaria search his mouth for the right word.

“As dark as as wood aged Dorne wine, on her raspberry syrup nipples.”

“Raspberry syrup and wood aged wine? Ellaria, _I_ am the supposed poisoner. If you just love me a weeny little bit, do keep out of the kitchens: no relationship could survive that.”

“Tacky comparison, I'm afraid. A lovely sight still.”

“Or her kissing yours. Just in case anyone is listening to us, just a tad more risqué than hearsays even the Red Keep cats are meowing by now.”

“You never cared about risks: you always play to win, and weigh gain more than loss.”

“I simply cheat whenever necessary; lady Sansa could be well worth it.”

Oberyn considered.

“The heiress to the North should loathe being a Lannister; still, she is in King's Landing court and likely informed of their ways, if not privy to their plans. A dangerous game, and a cruel one; but she could turn into an unknowing spy, or even a willing ally.”

“Why not simply an amour?” Ellaria grazed his nape. “You have been thinking to much lately, and you want to unwind. Affairs, and intrigue: can't you busy yourself with anything else?”

“How naïve of you. The Lannisters will at least get her to spy on us.”

“Didn't you just said she likely hates them?”

“You're but a child. Love and hate have little to do with this game. You don't have to hate to betray, or to love to serve someone's goals. Often it works better the other way around, and the Lannisters master this art skilfully. I've heard the most enticing accounts about Lord Stark's beheading, and she still being betrothed to the King until recently says a lot. Sansa Stark is rumoured to have been very close to the Queen, before and after her father's death.”

“Does not she realize she is their victim?”

“Weird bonds build between victims and their abusers.”

“We could break them.”

“Why so generous, Ellaria?”

“Isn't she beautiful?”

“A promise of the splendour she will become. Sansa Stark has a striking resemblance to her mother: Catelyn Tully was a celebrated beauty and had a long wooers' retinue.”

“Where you amongst them? You never told me.”

“Don't you know her House words 'Family, duty, honour.'? The Tully girls flirted a lot, but I doubt anyone got any further than a kiss. Not really my kind of game.”

“A reddening fruit.” Ellaria knew him too well, and sneered. “Some say all passed it by; I say you couldn't reach that high.”

“You hit the mark, Ellaria, I never had much luck with gingers.” Oberyn shrugged. “The Seven forbid a Tully girl should ever consort with a knave of my own rakish notoriety, not even in a modest dance!”

“How could a well-bred lady turn down the invitation of a Dorne Prince?”

“I'm taking is it your first time at the royal court, Ellaria? Any high-born woman would cringe at anything so unladylike such as an open refusal, when something along the lines of a swollen ankle would do.”

“Let's hope lady Catelyn's daughter will not be so sheepish, then.”


End file.
